A Friend in Need
by fhestia
Summary: A rescue mission gone wrong leads to a miserable day for Clara. Companion fic to "Cold Coffee." Sickfic fluff and friendship with sick!Clara and doing-his-best caretaking Twelve. Emetophobia warning for use of terms only; no graphic descriptions.


"Doctor!"

Clara scrabbled backward on her hands, shaking one foot violently while trying to dislodge a screaming, six-inch tribal warrior clinging to her ankle. The Doctor stood over her, fingers gripping the TARDIS door, expression tense as he scanned the surrounding hills.

"There's more coming over that ridge," he said.

With a final kick Clara freed herself and the door slammed shut, taking her shoe with it. The Doctor rushed to the console, hurriedly punching in coordinates for what Clara hoped was a very distant destination. She drew her knees up, shivering and wiping mud from her face.

'What was that all about?" she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the grinding of the engines. "You'd think they'd be happy we rescued the royal family."

"Oh, they were grateful," the Doctor said. "So grateful, in fact, they asked us to consider becoming a permanent part of their security detail. When I refused, they tried other means to convince us."

Clara's stomach rolled and she pressed a hand to her midsection, eyes widening. Nerves, that's all. Nerves and adrenaline and being chased through the countryside with nothing to eat since breakfast. The danger was past now, a few deep breaths and she'd be fine.

"They were trying to kidnap us?" she asked.

"As much as a miniscule band of fighters with primitive weapons could."

The ship pitched hard to the right, taking Clara with it. The erratic movement of the TARDIS wasn't helping the growing unease in her stomach.

"Clara, come on, don't just sit there," the Doctor said. "I could use a hand with the vertical stabilizers. Or two, if you can spare them."

"We did just run for our lives," she reminded him. "Let me catch my breath."

"Our lives were never in danger," he said. "Our legs from the shin down, yes. Our lives, not really."

"Yes, yes," Clara said, flapping one hand at him, hoping he would take the hint and shut up.

She closed her eyes, bracing her arms, but she could still feel the dizzy looping and swaying of the console room. The sick churn in her belly was worsening and she opened her eyes again, trying to focus on anything stationary. She saw the Doctor's hands instead, always the busiest part of him, and at the moment he was spinning a gyroscope which whirled and bounced and reflected the light. Not good.

She gave a soft moan, echoed by an impatient sigh from the Doctor.

"Are you going to help or not?"

"Give me a sec," she said. "Feeling a bit rough."

"Rough?" His attention snapped to her, everything else forgotten. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"Lost a shoe," she said, "my favorite pair of French heels. And I'm soaked. But no, I didn't hurt myself." She took a deep breath. "Feeling a tiny bit sick. It'll pass."

"Did you say soaked?" The Doctor reached her in two long strides and crouched in front of her. "How did you get soaked?"

Why did it matter? A damp blouse and a little mud in her hair seemed trivial compared to her current physical state.

"When we were running for the TARDIS," she explained. "I tripped and fell face-first into a puddle."

He lifted her chin with two fingers, turning her head gently from side to side. "Clumsy of you," he said, as he stared into her eyes. "I did tell you to change your shoes."

The movement was making her feel dizzier and she batted his hand away

"Did you swallow any of the water?" he asked. The Doctor's eyebrows were lowered, mouth drawn down in a scowl.

"Yeah, might have swallowed some." Clara shivered a bit, remembering the acrid taste in her mouth, like alum or bitters, and trying to spit it out while being dragged to safety. "Why?"

"No reason," he said, his tone becoming brisk as he stepped back to the controls.

"It's not important. You are looking a bit green, though," he said. "Motion sickness?"

"Never had it before." The ship gave another sudden lurch and Clara was thrown to her back. "First time for everything, I guess."

The Doctor banged the flat of his hand against the console controls in response to another shuddering jolt, his voice trailing off into ill-tempered muttering. Clara stopped listening. She was just going to lie here on her back against the lovely cool metal floor and rest quietly and think pleasant thoughts and try to quell the nausea rising into her throat.

"Maybe you ate too much at the celebratory luncheon," the Doctor said, after a few moments of blissful silence.

Clara moaned and covered her eyes with one hand. "I didn't eat anything at the luncheon," she said. "Everything looked like bits and entrails." She swallowed hard at the visual and olfactory memory.

"I'm almost certain it was entrails," he said. "Raw ones, at that."

Clara gulped against a sudden rush of saliva into her mouth, feeling a cold sweat prickling on her forehead.

"Good thing you limited yourself to wine at the meal," he said. "There's a substance in the freshwater supply on Lotera that's particularly toxic to humans." He gave another hard thump to the console that Clara could feel reverberating through her body.

"At least I think it was wine," he went on. "May have been the blood of a Taurine, a native hairless rodent, which has a distinctive fruity taste because of its diet of Glomera berries."

Clara's stomach gave a convulsive heave as she staggered to her feet, reaching for something to steady herself with. She needed a toilet and she needed it now or she was going to embarrass herself.

"Are you feeling okay?" the Doctor asked. "You've turned a very funny color."

"Gonna be sick, I think," she said through gritted teeth, glancing toward the TARDIS door.

"Don't try it," he warned. "We're in the midst of the time vortex."

"Oh sod the vortex," Clara managed to say before she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and broke into a stiff-legged run.

"Up the stairs, down the corridor to the left," he called after her retreating back. "I hope," he added under his breath.

* * *

Clara sat sprawled on the floor, head resting on the seat. She'd lost track of time. The hours passed in a blur of shivering and sweating and heaving and wishing for a quick painless death. She'd been sick over and over until she was certain they'd entered some kind of weird temporal loop and she was vomiting food she had yet to eat. But for the moment her stomach had settled. And she was going to sit here, gather her strength, and then she would find the Doctor and give him a good smack him for putting her through this misery.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Clara heard a hesitant knock on the door.

She lifted her head slightly, dropping it again as the room swam around her. How long had he been out there? And more crucial, had he heard anything? She knew he'd heard her being sick, there was probably an outpost of Judoon five billion light years away who had heard _that_ , but maybe he hadn't heard the crying. Or the begging. And maybe if she stayed very still, he'd lose interest and leave her alone.

"Clara, can I help?"

She cleared her throat, wincing at the sour taste flooding her mouth.

"No."

"Are you certain? I could hold your hair back," he said, sounding less than eager to try it. "I remember seeing it in a film once. "

"Bit late for that," she said. "And I don't want you anywhere near me right now."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm covered with about four different bodily fluids." A thoughtful silence fell and Clara raised her voice. "And don't even try to figure out which four," she warned him.

Clara heard the click of the latch lifting and shielded her eyes against the light as the Doctor slipped in and closed the door carefully behind him. Of course he was going to ignore her. He never listened.

"You don't need to do this," she said, as he moved toward the sink. "I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

He'd shed his jacket and waistcoat somewhere, his sleeves now rolled up and pushed past his elbows. She heard the squeak of the taps, the sound of water running and then his soft voice.

"I'm just returning the favor," he said. "Or have you forgotten Battersea Park?"

Clara smiled despite her discomfort.

"The roundabout incident."

"Yes," the Doctor said, drying his hands on a towel hanging nearby. "No ice lollies handy, so this will have to do instead."

He lowered himself to the floor to sit across from her, holding out a thick flannel. Clara hesitated before accepting it. She hated being mothered but at least he was sparing her the indignity of having her face bathed like a child.

He watched her carefully as she scrubbed the plush cloth under her eyes and across the back of her neck and pressed it to her forehead with a quiet sigh. When she'd finished he took the flannel between thumb and forefinger, unable to hide a slight grimace of distaste. He offered a tumbler full of water next. Clara shook her head emphatically and pushed it away. Just the thought of anything entering her mouth caused her stomach to roil.

"Not to drink," he said, pressing the glass into her hands. "Rinse your mouth out."

Clara took a small sip, swished and spat into the bowl but just that simple act triggered a muscle memory and her stomach convulsed. She coughed, took a deep breath and clenched her teeth, praying she wouldn't be sick again. The whir of the sonic screwdriver penetrated her misery.

"Get that thing away from me," she said. "Or so help me I'll jam it into the nearest orifice I can reach and keep in mind I'm shorter than you."

"Tetchy," he said, pocketing the screwdriver. "Besides, I don't think you have the strength."

Clara dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, her vision beginning to go hazy around the edges.

* * *

Clara didn't remember much after she'd fallen asleep in the bathroom. Or had she passed out?

Either way, only flashes of memory were coming to her mind: Gentle hands combing through her hair and gathering it at the nape of her neck; a warm fleecy jumper being snugged around her shivering body; her nose nuzzled into someone's warm and solid chest, feeling safe and protected as she was carried away from that horrible room where she'd been so miserable.

And now she was lying quietly on a leather couch, a light blanket covering her. Every muscle from her throat to her abdomen felt bruised and overworked but she was blessedly free from nausea, the only sensation a pleasant heavy and relaxed feeling.

She sighed and turned her head, taking in the expansive room where she'd been brought: all dark burnished wood and overstuffed chairs and soft warm light falling on the floor from high windows; nothing moving, blinking or beeping, just the smell of leather and dust and aged paper.

"Are you awake?"

The voice came from the doorway behind the couch where she rested her and Clara smiled at the soft words.

"Was never really sleeping," she said. "Where've you been? Was getting lonely."

"You spent most of your time asking me to leave you alone," the Doctor said. "So I was leaving you alone."

She heard him take a few careful steps into the room, much different from his usual brisk pace.

"You can come in," she said. "I'm not going to chase you out again. Or jam the screwdriver anywhere it doesn't belong."

"It's not that," he said. "I'm trying to-"

His words were interrupted by the sound of several heavy objects dropping to the floor.

"What are you doing back there?" she asked.

"They're rolling all over the place," he said from somewhere near the floor. Clara giggled at his perturbed tone and the various grunts and groans and scrabbling noises he was making. "Give me a second."

Finally the Doctor circled the couch and stood in front of her, a number of brightly-colored bottles gathered loosely in his arms.

"I picked up one of every variety."

Clara tried to follow but felt too tired to focus on what he was telling her.

"There's orange, cherry, strawberry, and, erm, tropical," he said. "Not sure what flavor that's supposed to be."

His fingers were tapping against the containers in a rapid rhythm as he watched her squinting at the labels.

"Lucozade," Clara said, when the blurriness finally passed and she was able to make out the words. "You brought me Lucozade?"

"You need to replenish the fluids you've lost," he said. "It all looks perfectly horrible to me, but the clerk insisted it would help."

"The clerk." She blinked slowly. "A shop clerk, you mean? How did you manage that? There a Boots on Venus or something?"

"No." The Doctor kneeled by the couch, settling the bottles within easy reach and giving each one a little shake as he added it to the colorful row. "I went to the chemist on the corner."

At her puzzled expression, he explained. "I brought you home, Clara."

She lifted her head from the pillow.

"I'm home?"

"Well, home-ish," he said. "A few blocks away, actually. It's late. Didn't think your neighbors would appreciate having the TARDIS materialize right next door while they're trying to sleep."

"No, I suppose not."

Clara pushed herself up slowly, dropping her head as the room tilted and swayed. She took a deep breath and held out one hand.

"Well, you went to all that trouble," she said. "Pick a flavor for me Whatever looks least disgusting to you."

He hesitated over the line of bottles, finally choosing one in bright orange.

"They're supposed to be served cold," he cautioned. "The colder the better, so I can't guarantee the taste."

She shrugged and cracked the top, tilting the bottle slowly and letting a little of the liquid trickle into her mouth. Her throat constricted as she tried to swallow and she coughed, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. She felt thirstier than she'd realized and took a larger gulp.

"Slowly," the Doctor cautioned, placing a restraining hand on her arm. "It will do you no good if comes straight back up."

"I haven't been sick for hours," she said. "And I'm parched." She knew he was right and tried to limit herself to small sips, resisting the urge to guzzle the drink. The Doctor sat quietly next to her, hands behind his head. Clara studied him while he was distracted. His eyes appeared dull, fatigue pulling at the muscles in his face.

"You look tired," she said.

He frowned slightly in response. "Am a bit." He dropped his hands, letting his head fall to one side so he could look at her. "TARDIS is out of commission for a few days."

Clara nodded to indicate she was listening.

"Parked her right on top of a bog on Lotera and some of the groundwater contaminated her engines."

"That's why she was running so rough?"

I think so," he said. "I was able to flush most of the sludge from the system. Her self-repair cycle will take care of the rest."

"Must be some pretty toxic stuff."

The glucose was starting to do its job and as Clara's mind cleared, a sudden thought struck her.

"All that rubbish you were going on about earlier," she said, brandishing the empty Lucozade bottle for emphasis. "The Taurine blood and the entrails? You did that on purpose. You were trying to flush my system, too."

He gave a guilty start, glancing at her before looking away. "If you want to put it that way, yes," he said. "It was either that or stick my finger down your throat and I didn't want to lose any appendages if there was another way."

She stared at him for a moment. "I suppose I should thank you," she said. "Though I'm not feeling terribly grateful at the moment."

"I didn't expect gratitude," he said, taking the bottle from her and setting it to the side. "The toxin you ingested can be fatal to humans even in small quantities and you needed to rid yourself of it quickly. I used the most efficient method at my disposal."

"Disgusting, though."

"You've a strong will, Clara." he said softly. "And you're stubborn. I knew you might refuse to be sick if you somehow thought it was my idea."

"Mm, I don't know. I think the word 'fatal' might have convinced me."

"Wasn't taking a chance."

He drew her close to his side as he spoke,stroking one hand across her forehead in a distracted manner, long fingers cool against her skin. From the distant expression in his eyes, Clara knew he wasn't aware of his actions but she was enjoying the soothing sensation too much to bring it to his attention.

Just as she was beginning to drift off, her head nodding toward his shoulder, the Doctor snatched his hand away and leaped from the couch. He uttered a muffled curse as he barked his leg on a nearby wooden table and stood head bowed, hands gripping the edge of the table, breathing heavily.

Clara wasn't sure whether to laugh or feel concerned.

"You okay?" she asked him.

He nodded and limped back to where she sat, drawing the blanket up to cover her. She snuggled into the depths of the cushions with a contented sigh.

"Try and get some sleep now," he said softly. "You've had a long day."

"You're leaving?"

He hesitated and then his voice shifted into the practical tone she knew so well.

"Of course." he said. "You're out of danger, you're no longer vomiting, you have the means to rehydrate yourself and you seem lucid enough to do so responsibly."

"Yeah," Clara said. "But I wouldn't mind some company."

"Company?" he said, sounding as if the entire concept was foreign to him. "You mean stay here with you?"

"That's the idea."

"And what am I supposed to do with myself while I'm keeping you company?"

"You sit there," Clara said, motioning toward the end of the couch. "And you talk to me until I fall asleep. Shouldn't take long, depending on the subject matter."

He glanced toward the double doors, looking for all the world like a trapped animal, and then his shoulders sagged in defeat. He sank down next to her, elbows resting on his knees, curled into himself.

"I'll stay," he said. "But I don't feel like talking."

She laughed. "Since when do you not feel like talking? The only time you're ever quiet is when you're sleeping and sometimes not even then."

He remained silent, eyes cast down to the floor.

"Okay, Doctor, out with it. There's something you're not telling me." She nudged his leg with one sock-clad foot. "I'm dying, aren't I? The toxic water is eventually fatal and I have only a few weeks to live. Is that it?"

Clara was trying to keep her tone light but the scowl on his face deepened.

"No, nothing like that," he said. "It's as you said, I'm tired. Nothing to worry about."

"Words that immediately make me feel worried," she pointed out.

He sighed, running his hands through his hair. His irritated action left a few curls in disarray and Clara resisted the urge to smooth them back down.

"Are you familiar with the Rassilon Imprimatur?" he asked. "Surely you've heard of it."

"Can't say that I am," she said. "Sounds impressive and Time Lordy, though."

"I don't know how to explain it exactly," he said. "But in its simplest terms, the TARDIS and I share a sort of…psychic link, you might call it."

She shook her head, not understanding why he seemed so somber about it.

"Okay, psychic link. And?"

"What she feels, I feel," he said. "And the TARDIS is a little under the weather while her self-repair cycle is running, which means-."

"Which means you're not feeling well, either," she said. "Doctor, why didn't you say something?"

He shrugged one shoulder in response. "Preoccupied with other matters."

"Worrying over me, you mean."

"Being responsible for you," he said.

"So do you need to 'flush your system?'" she asked. "I can describe what it looked like the last time I tried to make a soufflé."

One corner of his mouth quirked into a grin that quickly disappeared. "That's taken care of," he said.

She nodded and leaned over to grab two bottles from the selection on the floor. "I know just the thing for a queasy stomach," she said, passing one over to him. "Strawberry for me this time and the mystery tropical flavor for you."

They opened the containers simultaneously, Clara tapping the edge of her bottle against his in imitation of a toast.

"I still don't know what tropical is supposed to taste like," he said, a doubtful expression crossing his face as he took a sniff of the liquid. "I'm familiar with thousands of tropical and subtropical climates and all their native flora differs wildly. You can't narrow it down to one flavor."

"I don't know what it is. Usually pineapple or coconut."

"But pineapple can be grown in a temperate region under the proper conditions," he said. "It doesn't have to be tropical."

"I thought you didn't feel like talking," she said. Now be quiet and drink your Lucozade."

He shot her a sidelong look, but did as he was told. After taking a hesitant sip, some of the tension seemed to leave his body and he relaxed against the back of the couch, the bottle resting against his chest.

"Not bad, this," he said.

Clara pulled the blanket over to cover them both, resting her head near his and snuggling against his side.

"Not bad at all," she agreed.


End file.
